


The Right Regrets

by lazarus_girl



Series: GGSM Prompts [6]
Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 07:23:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1104044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus_girl/pseuds/lazarus_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quinn and Rachel meet in a London hotel room. A chance encounter has turned into something more habitual, and the blurred boundaries of their longtime friendship have dissolved entirely. </p><p>
  <i>“If she stays any longer, there will be more questions – even more than usual – and more lies to tell."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Right Regrets

**Author's Note:**

> AU. Future fic. Follows canon up to the end of S4. A very late fill of of [this](http://trainwrecky.livejournal.com/1320.html?thread=70696#t70696) GGSM prompt. Beyond the story, this one is something of an exercise in style and discipline, working with a smaller word count to create a picture of a very specific moment within a relationship. Though it’s shorter than a lot of what I’ve written lately, I hope it retains the elements you’ve come to enjoy in my writing. Thank you, as ever, to [cargoes](http://cargoes.tumblr.com) for her beta skills and cheerleading. Title inspired by [this](http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/a/arthurmill106419.html) Arthur Miller quote. To listen to the accompanying mix click [here](http://8tracks.com/lazarusgirl/a-fleeting-pleasure). Finally, click [here](https://24.media.tumblr.com/a2fe4739f2757f60a69408c52ff5d00c/tumblr_n3op35kTiC1txkikoo2_1280.png) to see the face claims of featured secondary characters.

***

 _“Know what we did, Lucy? You and me?_  
 _We spent our whole lives yearning._  
 _Isn't that the God damndest thing?”_  
― Richard Yates, _Young Hearts Crying_.

***

“Don’t go.”

This isn’t new. She’s heard Rachel say this a thousand times, maybe more, but it never hurts any less. It never fails to make her heart sink to the lowest depth. She presses closer to Rachel than normal because of it. This is when she wonders how long it really go on for without naming it, but mostly, she wonders simply how long it can go on for.

There’s a time limit, different to the clock in the lobby or the one on her phone that keep them tied to the ugliness of reality – a painful reminder that they belong to other people. The clock is in her head. Tick. Tick. Tick. It tells her when to stay, when to pull Rachel closer, when give in to those doe eyes and the relentless want that twists in her belly that’s never truly sated. It tells her when to leave, like now, when afternoon is edging dangerously into early evening.

If she stays any longer, there will be more questions – even more than usual – and more lies to tell.

They’ve fought it, countless times, stubbornly determined to make things work and behave as they should. Once, twice, a hundred times since they were barely out of high school and sickeningly naïve, they’ve agreed to remain friends and relegate their interactions to email, Skype, or the odd meeting in some coffeehouse chain when they’re in the right place at the right time. That was the plan, at least. It never lasts. Fate always has other ideas. If she didn’t care, if she didn’t adore Rachel as she does, she’d wonder if the whole thing is some rather elaborate albeit cruel cosmic joke. Almost a decade later, a string of failed romances and shaky marriage between them, they’re still here. Still together but not together. Scavenging for scraps.

This is when she wonders if there’s a limit to how much they can get away with it. Clandestine meetings. Snatched moments of things. Sometimes they fuck – and it really is, if they’ve been separated for long enough by schedules and circumstance. It’s hard and fast and over all too soon, leaving them collapsed on the nearest surface, sweaty and breathless. Sometimes they make love, when those schedules and circumstances allow. It’s slow and sensual, drawn out beyond recognition, leaving them tired, but content, falling asleep wrapped up in each other. Today is one of those days. A rare gem of a thing. It makes them greedy. It makes them realise how much they’re truly missing by splitting their lives into pieces. Compartmentalising assuages guilt, but little else. The space is getting too small. It’s claustrophobic. It’s dangerous. It’s unhealthy, even.

And yet, she hasn’t moved an inch. Neither has Rachel.

She didn’t want to shatter the illusion so quickly, and feels a brief pang of guilt because she has. Until a few moments ago, they were still in that blissful sleepy and satisfied but still wanting stage. Now the room feels much colder, and even though there’s scant space between their bodies – her breasts almost flush to Rachel’s back –she knows that distance has opened up between them. Walls are being erected, defences drawn. No one wants to be reminded that this is temporary; that once they leave this room they’ll go back to their lives and they won’t see each other again until the next time this happens. The pretence of living different, separate, and seemingly perfect – but often unsatisfying – lives is starting to wear.

“Please?”

There’s a painful edge to her words today, needy, desperate even. It’ll make the leaving that little bit harder; the choices they’re making (or not making) harder still. Rachel reaches behind her, touching Quinn’s leg where it drapes across her hip, tracing the kneecap with a shy kind of tenderness. It’s a needless touch, a defence mechanism. She’s clinging to Quinn like she promised she never would. Quinn is clinging just as much.

These moments are too much and never enough, slipping through their fingers in spite of how tight they clutch – quicksand and lighting all at once. They can never amount to something solid and real like a marriage, no matter how hard they try. She and Rachel both know it. Maybe that’s why this doesn’t have a name. It’s not worthy of one, and yet, she knows that’s not true. Everything carries too much weight for that, even the tiniest instances, like when she visits Rachel’s apartment in Williamsburg, and she goes into the kitchen to help with the coffee, and their fingertips accidentally (on purpose) brush when they get the sugar or the cream; or the takes delight in the mundane domesticity of reaching for the coffee grinds in the cupboard that Rachel isn’t tall enough to even open.

That weight means she can’t leave yet, not on these terms. She’s certain they’ll meet next week, and another date will be crossed off their calendar, whittling down the time they have left. They’ve never backed out, even when things have gotten bad, and yet, she’s afraid. She’s afraid that one day, they’ll push each other that fraction too far, and when they leave – practiced, staggered, as always – there will be no phone call later, no text to apologise, and no meeting to follow. There will be nothing. She can’t face that. She can’t contemplate the death of them in real terms, because it means that part of herself too would be dying in the process. Rachel is too much a part of her now. Atomic.

“Stay a little while longer.”

She’d give anything to stay all night, but she can’t, no matter how much she wants to – and she really does – they’re already pushing their luck. Her phone has gone off multiple times and so has Rachel’s. With a soft sigh, she presses a kiss to Rachel’s bare shoulder, her hand skating down Rachel’s ribs, keeping silent count. The number hasn’t changed. She knew it wouldn’t, but she counts all the same, just like the number of beauty marks Rachel has littered over all over her body. She knows a lot of numbers like that. They both do. That’s what happens when you learn every inch of another person and commit the numbers and the map they make to memory.

“But Hutch,” she states, quietly, trying not to spit out the word.

She doesn’t hate him. She has no place to. In theory, he’s the man she should want to tear limb from limb. He’s her nemesis. In practice, he’s someone she’s friends with, someone she _likes_ , no matter how she wishes the opposite were true.

Rachel stiffens. That invisible distance between them grows. The hand that’s been so comfortably draped across Quinn’s leg moves, and then Rachel’s searching for a scrap of the bed sheet to cover herself with, suddenly embarrassed by her nakedness. She scoots back, hugging her knees, using the sheet as a cocoon. Quinn’s not cold, but she shivers anyway. Bringing him up was a mistake, and Rachel’s reaction is a stark reminder of why. There’s no room for him in this bed. She’s tainted things.

Hutch. It sounds so innocent, when she says it like that, when she reduces him to a benign pet name. She can fool herself into thinking he matters less. Things only get complicated when she reminds herself of how many times they met, poured over novels and scripts during dinner parties because his eye for a good story is just as keen as hers. Things get messy and tangled beyond all recognition when she remembers he’s Greg Hutchinson, the hotshot award-winning theatre producer, husband of musical theatre darling Rachel Berry, and there’s a corner of Rachel’s heart that’s reserved solely for him. To loving and being in love with him – and Rachel _does_ love him, no matter how tempestuous that love is.

She wishes it didn’t exist.

“Don’t,” Rachel replies, warningly, and she can hear the steel in her voice.

It’s two degrees off the sharp tone she uses when she’s mad at her sweet, loyal-to-a-fault assistant, Samantha.

She regrets it immediately.

“I’m well aware of the time we don’t have Quinn. I have two rehearsals left before the dress run, and everyone still hates the fact they chose me,” her nerves leach out of her every word, “and that’s before we even get to how I secured the part at all,” she sighs, exasperated.

“Rachel,” she starts, reaching for her hand, “I just –” she cuts herself off, because she doesn’t want this conversation, even if she started it. The real world is creeping into their time together all too often. The damage is starting to show.

She doesn’t want to talk about Greg or _Cabaret_ , Sally Bowles, the rigours of working under Rufus Norris, the gamble they’re all taking, and the pressure of her West End debut. She cares about Rachel’s success, she wants nothing more for her than the recognition Rachel so richly deserves, but sometimes, Quinn just wishes things were less complicated. She doesn’t want Rachel Berry, she wants Rachel. She just wants to enjoy this for what it is. A slice of luck. A brief chance at happiness because they’re in the same place at the same time more or less beyond the watchful gaze of people who shouldn’t hear or see or speak about any of it.

If she knew what this was, exactly, maybe it would be easier to deal with.

It’s not a fling, because that sounds so light and inconsequential, like they’re just here for the physical – it may have started out that way, a long time ago, falling into bed, drunk on champagne and high on the success of Rachel’s Broadway debut, ears ringing from the loud noise of the afterparty – when she knows it’s much more than that now. They’re in this, deep, whether they want to be or not.

It’s not an affair either, at least, not in Rachel’s mind, no matter how much she presses her on it, Rachel refuses to give it that name, perhaps because that sounds so sordid and deceitful, but it’s what people do, in anonymous hotel rooms like this. It’s upscale, because they both have the money now, so the décor is painfully bland and minimalist instead of cheap and garish even under a neon glare. The concierge here knows them both by name. It’s neutral ground, far away from the other hotel Rachel and her fellow cast members are staying, and her own Islington flat. The bed they’re lying in is in a room he refers to as “regular.” He’s discreet. He’s paid to be, of course, but they’re glad of it. Even though they’re both in another country, the speed at which gossip can spread makes that distance incredibly small. Rachel has much more to lose should news of this go public. Maybe that’s why she’s become so fiercely protective of her image and what the rest of the world gets to see. That Rachel, and the one who she shares a bed with are very different women.

It’s not love, not at all, not in the schmaltzy, throwaway adolescent sense or the full-blown, epic sweeping romance sense. Rachel plays that out on stage to roaring applause. She’s Bloomsbury’s golden girl, and edits that down in novels that ultimately become outrageously popular. It’s love in the real, untidy, ungainly way that’s all consuming, passionate and sensual. It’s the kind of love that she’s never found with anyone but Rachel. The fit with anyone else is never as seamless.

“I don’t need this, OK? Don’t bring Greg into this. Not today,” she snaps, yanking her hand away. “Would you like to talk about Addie perhaps?” she continues, glaring pointedly, her voice laced with disdain.

She puffs out a breath, rolling on to her back and barely glancing in Rachel’s direction.

Another pet name. Another surge of jealousy. Rachel doesn’t want Adelina Reyes to exist either.

“That’s not fair,” she counters, determined not to rise to the bait, but that’s no easy task when Rachel knows _exactly_ what buttons to push.

“No, it’s not, but some of us don’t have the luxury of being a free agent.”

She snorts derisively, biting back a ‘fuck you.’

Technically, Addie is her girlfriend, but Rachel is very _un_ -technically married and that seems to matter little, particularly not when Quinn’s head is between her legs and begging for more, desperately trying to bite back a scream. Things with Addie have never really been serious, not like Rachel and Greg. They have their own lives and they’re definitely not exclusive. It would be naïve to sustain anything else, even though her time is pretty evenly split between London and New York these days. When they are together, it’s easy and fun. They enjoy each other’s company, and well, the sex is good, but something about her drives Rachel nuts. She loathed her on sight, and now she barely tolerates her existence. It seems to matter more to her that Addie is back in New York, and the most contact they’ve had in weeks is over Skype, while Greg has been very much present, and Quinn’s been feeling every inch the third wheel.

“You married him,” she reminds her, with a shrug. It was meant to sound smug, but all she can hear is the familiar bitter ring of knowing she came second.

“No, _that_ was unfair, Quinn!” Rachel spits, furious, throwing off the sheet and swinging her legs out to the side of the bed. She sits there briefly, and the light catches on her ring, just so. “You let me.”

Quinn swallows hard, tasting bile.

That one hurt, but she deserved it. Rachel’s right. She _did_ let her. She was even part of the bridal party, watching on half proud, half seething – she’s still surviving the drowning weight of living in that flux. The less said about what happened with Santana later on after the reception and one too many garish cocktails, the better.

She used to think that ring was pretty. Diamonds, after all. She used to think it suited her, but now all she can think is that it’s an ugly shackle of a thing. The look on Rachel’s face reflected in the full-length mirror opposite tells her that maybe she feels the same. Just as quickly, the ring disappears again, obscured by the cuff of Rachel’s shirt as she throws it on, whirling around and searching for the rest of her clothes, snatching them up from where they lie, strewn across the carpet with Quinn’s own, marking their path from the door to the bed.

“I need to go. I need to shower. I need to – ”

There it is, that familiar, guilt-ridden panic. Rachel whirls around, pacing back and forth across the room, running a hand through her hair, trying to gather herself.

“Where are you going?” Quinn groans, turning on to her stomach, watching the display briefly, before burying her face in the pillows, inhaling Rachel’s lingering scent. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she reaches out, half-heartedly patting the space Rachel occupied. “Come back to bed for God’s sake.”

“I can’t, as you so helpfully reminded me!” Rachel huffs, turning her back as she buttons her shirt hastily. “I’ll pay for the night and the room service tab. Do what you want with it … or whomever you want.”

At that, Quinn’s head snaps up. “Wow, that’s romantic.”

Rachel turns back, arms full of clothes and just looks at her, swallowing hard. Her jaw is set hard, her mouth closed in a thin, tight smile.

It hurts Quinn that she thinks that little of her, that maybe she spends time thinking about the other girls – women – she might do this with. It turns out there doesn’t have to be money on the nightstand to make her feel like a whore. She won’t be the one to leave, to give in and acknowledge her place, but she doesn’t want to give Rachel the satisfaction of a dramatic exit either. All this doesn’t terrify her nearly as much as it used to, but it does make her stomach roil with an all-too-familiar sickness. Rachel always has to do this, scrub herself clean, and eradicate all the traces – lipstick, perfume, sweat, the unmistakable heady scent of arousal – unless they’re meeting under the pretence of lunch, where the perfume and the lipstick are at least socially permissible.

“Rach, it doesn’t matter how long you stay under the spray, you’ll never shake that post sex glow,” she smirks, getting a perverse thrill out of watching Rachel’s face darken. “It looks good on you.”

The hurt in Rachel’s eyes makes Quinn feel wretched. Her mother once said she could be uncommonly cruel when she wanted. Her mother was right. It’s not really directed at Rachel – it is, but it isn’t – but this game is ultimately turning to be less fun than those first frenzied months of it years ago in Bushwick. She doesn’t know why they’re choosing today of all days to twist the knife, but it’s stuck deep now, right between her shoulder blades, and there’s no moving it.

This is what she gets for loving Rachel with such ferocity. It’s becoming harder and harder to keep her feelings in check. She has to bottle so much up, and eventually, inevitably, it claws its way to the surface. This is the price of never being able to love her openly and completely. Something or someone has always gotten in the way. Often, it’s been entirely their fault. Greg and Addie were meant to be the stopping blocks. The dam to the tide of their feelings. It hasn’t worked out that way.

In this moment, she hates Rachel. Truly hates her. Somewhere, she can feel the rage she used to reserve for her father bubbling up, transferred toward another man because of Boston, a new show that ran itself into the ground before it got started, and a creative partnership that quickly blossomed into something else. When that rage overwhelms her, clouding her vision, she wishes they’d never even met or blurred the fragile boundaries of their friendship one too many times.

“Fuck you!” Rachel shoots back, her eyes brimming with tears, turning away from her.

“I did,” she replies, lightning fast, tilting her head knowing the smugness is there. “Twice,” she slides across the bed up on her knees stalking toward Rachel. “And you fucking loved it!”

The clothes drop from Rachel’s hands, her shoes thudding softly against the carpet, and she just gapes, speechless. She’s rendered her entirely mute. It’s never happened before. She’s not sure if she should celebrate. Instead, she fixes her gaze on mirror Rachel again, because that image somehow seems more real than the one she can actually touch; watching as tears slide down her cheek. These aren’t new either, but they’ve lost none of their effect. The hurt that comes with seeing Rachel like this rings loud in her chest, and it’s a lot harder to breathe than it was.

Quinn sighs, knowing they’ve just hit a stopping block of another kind. It’s her turn to climb down, to sweet-talk and soothe.

It’s better this way, if they don’t confront things. It’s a cheap trick to woo her like this, but it’s better than the alternative. Sending a flustered, angry, and upset Rachel back to Hutch will provoke more questions than one who’s calm and content. It’s a calculated risk, but in truth, she just wants to salve the wounds they’re both carrying over this. The hatred never lasts long. She’s partly responsible for this mess, for the predicament Rachel’s in, so she has no real place berating her.

She says nothing else, padding softly across the carpet until she’s right behind Rachel. Her arms slide around Rachel’s waist, and she nuzzles into her neck, and inhaling her scent. There’s no fight, like she expected there might be, Rachel just relents, letting herself be held, her hands covering Quinn’s. It’s a relief. A strange, strange relief. They stand there, just looking at each other in the mirror. They both look a mess, hair tousled and wild, immaculate make-up long gone, but she’s struck by how _right_ they look posed together like this. Even though Rachel has panda eyes, because her mascara has well and truly run, and her deep red lipstick has been kissed off to the faintest of smears, Quinn still thinks she’s devastatingly beautiful.

“You always love it,” she comments with a wry smile as she curls Rachel’s hair behind her ear, watching her blush and avert her gaze, embarrassed. “I know you, Rachel. I know you,” her every word is punctuated with a kiss pressed lower and lower down Rachel’s neck.

Rachel shudders at the contact. “Quinn,” she says, in the shaky exhale of a breath, “We shouldn’t,” she continues, tilting her head to the side, giving Quinn easier access.

“But you want to,” she teases. “You’re the one who asked me to stay,” she prompts, starting to unbutton Rachel’s shirt. “You’re no more ready to leave this room than I am.”

She glances up, meeting Rachel’s eyes in the mirror, taking longer to undo the last few buttons, because Rachel is watching too, lip caught between her teeth. Quinn knows that look: it’s hunger, fascination and curiosity all rolled into one. It’s intoxicating. She knows exactly what she needs to do so Rachel _really_ has something to look at.

Without another word, her hands slide across Rachel’s shoulders, trailing softly down the curve of back, and then around, until she’s palming her breasts, squeezing with just enough roughness, delighting in the weight and their warmth. She loves how they feel in her hands, how fast Rachel’s nipples go taut when she rolls them between her fingers. She latches on to Rachel’s neck, attacking with broad sweeps of her tongue and sucking hard at the skin – never as hard as she wants, because she’s not allowed to leave marks – just how she loves.

Her name is choked off to one letter: Q.

Rachel’s eyes widen, swallowing visibly hard, and she’s pressing back into Quinn’s touch, reaching around, trying to grab onto anything, nails digging into Quinn’s thigh. The look is different now. It’s pure lust. She has her attention. No one really knows this side of her, because Rachel’s so ladylike and polite, and she has the lingering vestiges of innocence in her face, so you’d never guess how good she is in bed: attentive, confident, proud even. Unashamedly sexy.

It remains the greatest surprise; the best twist their fate has ever taken.

“Yes,” Rachel admits, grudgingly. “I do want to … I can’t go. Not yet. I need –”

She keeps on kissing, extorting her height advantage and dropping kisses along Rachel’s jaw when she angles her head back, straining to reach her, desperate to be kissed on the mouth. Quinn will give in, eventually, but the anticipation always makes it better. They’ll collide, all teeth and tongue, with a fierceness she’s never felt whenever she’s kissed anyone else. Instead, she continues her path, smoothing her hands down Rachel’s stomach, rounding her hips, knowing how much Rachel enjoys the teasing; the long drawn out foreplay. Just like she knew they would, Rachel’s nails bite deeper into her thigh, and she hisses out pleasure at the sensation.

“What?” she asks, her voice dropping to that soft huskiness that Rachel loves, giving away her want.

She shouldn’t need Rachel this much. She shouldn’t want her this much, but somehow, she’s ready, the right kind of tension, building in her belly. The thought alone of ending up back in bed with Rachel for the third time in a day – to tease and touch and taste her all over again – is making her wet. When she cups between Rachel’s legs, spreading her folds, she finds Rachel is just the same, and she can’t resist touching her, stroking back and forth through her slickness, swiping briefly at Rachel clit. She’s tempted – so very tempted – to slide her fingers inside, sink them deep; wanting to watch it all unfold, right before her eyes. Watch the very second Rachel comes apart, for her and because of her.

“You,” Rachel gasps, hips bucking into Quinn’s touch, hand reaching up to grab the back of Quinn’s head. “You.”

Now Quinn gives in, turning Rachel to her by the hips, and kissing her hard. The angle is awkward, Rachel up on her tiptoes to reach, but she doesn’t care, because Rachel’s tongue is curling into her mouth as the kiss deepens. It’s heavy and desperate, hard, quick little pecks alternating between longer, lingering kisses as they make their way back toward the bed. She grabs Rachel’s ass, squeezing, before lifting her off her feet. Rachel lets out a squeak of surprise, wrapping her legs around Quinn’s waist; arms threaded loosely around her neck.

It always makes Quinn feel strangely powerful, but really, Rachel weighs practically nothing at all. She holds on to her tightly, arm snaking around her lower back, struck by how tiny and fragile Rachel feels in her arms, and how right it is that she’s back there. They make it there in quick little steps, landing on the bed awkwardly, the springs cushioning the drop.

Rachel laughs, deep and throaty, pulling back to look at her when they reluctantly break the kiss. She’s about to make some witty little comment, but it dies on her tongue when she sees how Rachel’s studying her intently, full of reverence.

“I do love you,” she declares suddenly, as she shifts to straddle Quinn, hand to her chest, pushing her down into the mattress. “So much. So very much.”

She smiles softly, reaching to brush Rachel’s cheek with the back of her hand.

“Please don’t forget that,” she continues, in the softest voice Quinn’s ever heard.

Before she can reply, Rachel’s hands are cradling her face, and she’s leaning down to kiss her. It’s so gentle, so tender, compared to before, that her breath catches sharply, overcome. This is why she couldn’t leave. This is why it’ll never end, not really, not truly. When they’re like this, nothing and no one else matters. All they need is each other. No matter what happens from now on, whether she has Rachel for another hour, another day or another year, they can’t take this away from them. Their bond will never be broken.

“I love you too,” she whispers, pulling Rachel in for another kiss as she rolls them both over.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Rachel’s phone light up. They freeze. Quinn’s heart suddenly in her throat because she recognises the ringtone. They pull away from each other, turning toward the sound. Sure enough, Greg’s face fills the screen as it continues to ring, the vibration sending it juddering off the edge of the nightstand.

“Ignore it,” Rachel breathes, tapping Quinn’s jaw and forcing her look away and refocus her attention. “I’m still here aren’t I?”

That’s what matters. For now. For always.

She opens her mouth to speak, cut off by another, significantly rougher kiss, that firmly pushes the interruption away. They both know the truth of it; no matter how many kind words or soft touches they use to fool themselves and pretend it’s otherwise. In Quinn’s head, the clock is still ticking, deafeningly loud.

Time is not on her side.

***

 **Footnote:** Rufus Norris actually directed a national tour of _Cabaret_ that recently ended its run. Rachel’s turn would remain somewhere along Shaftsbury Avenue of course, but I liked the nod, so I left it in.


End file.
